


Your Matches Still Light Up the Sky

by bulfinch



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, If fluff be the food of love fluff on; Give me excess of it, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Only the lightest smattering of smut, Post-Apocalypse, so soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:09:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28686147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulfinch/pseuds/bulfinch
Summary: Crowley has had a hard day. Gentle and tender eroticism ensues, as well as much softness.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	Your Matches Still Light Up the Sky

Heaven was cold and clean and sharp. Like marble and starlight. It was as true now, Crowley had discovered with a mild, distracted surprise (there had been more important things at hand), as it had been when it was new. Even in the dimmest of his memories, before the Saunter-Fall, even filtered amidst the elation of being Loved by Her, it had all been a little too…astringent. Unfeeling. 

Perhaps that was why Lucifer’s questions had bloomed with such warmth in his mind. 

But Aziraphale was nothing like that. Every too-tender feeling bare on his face. A heartbreaking kind of beauty. 

He had tried to mould himself into Heaven’s idea of goodness. All self-restraint and, Crowley knew, a constant self-flagellation. 

It was like the sun trying to mould itself into dead rock and metal and dust. Sooner or later its true nature would burn through, turn it all molten, and light the sky with its blinding fire. 

The angels, Crowley often thought, were fools not to fear Aziraphale. And he had been right in the end. 

Crowley had had a hard day. A day when there seemed to be a million little reasons to coil tightly inward. Parts of him, apparently, were too tender still. So easily overwrought and overcome. Belly left a little too vulnerable after…what exactly? The chaos and grief and joy of the End? The gutting loss at the Beginning? The millennia in between of playing spectator to the countless cruelties doled out by humanity, so far beyond the imaginings of Crowley’s mere temptations?

Aziraphale had found him there, in their bed, hugging his own knees to his chest like an infant, his human angles compensating poorly for serpentine instinct. It was dark in the room, the late-afternoon rain patting softly at the window. 

He tutted but said nothing, climbed onto the bed, and, gently, helped Crowley unfurl. A warm palm on the small of his back. A light tug at his shoulder. A soothing hand down his flank. The firm pressure of loving fingers through his hair. Until Crowley was on his back, gazing into earnest blue. 

The demon brushed the crinkle between Aziraphale’s worried brows, cupped his face in his palm. 

“Bad day, Crowley dear?” 

A curt nod. A lingering kiss. 

Aziraphale began to undress him then. Carefully. Handling him like a wounded thing, his trailing fingers sending chills up Crowley’s sides. Aziraphale kissed newly revealed skin as he went, like a prayer. When Crowley, finally, was bare beneath the familiar safety of Aziraphale’s hands, he felt tears stinging at the corner of his eyes, relieved and overcome all at once. Undone by the love in Aziraphale’s steady gaze. 

A questioning look from Aziraphale. Should he stop?

“Please.” murmured Crowley. “Please,” pushing at Aziraphale’s clothes, running his fingers over his chest, under his coat, slipping it down a little over sturdy shoulders. The angel sighed into the touch, eyelashes fluttering for a moment without meaning to. Crowley could not help but smile at that.

Aziraphale straightened, shed the coat, worked elegant fingers steadily down the buttons of his waistcoat. Brave enough to comply without a second thought to self-consciousness. For Crowley. And so beautiful Crowley could hardly breathe. 

When all the layers between them had been shed, Aziraphale kissed him again, pressed their bodies together, wrapped his arms around him. It was like a wave of warmth and Crowley let himself fall limp around him. Let Aziraphale hold him together. 

It took strength to be soft, to dare kindness instead of wrath.

And it was kindly that Aziraphale worked him open, had him shivering and panting and coming apart. It was patiently that he moved inside him, drawing out their pleasure until Crowley was a wreck. Until all the rawness and hurt were eased out of him. 

And, feeling new again, it was softly that Crowley held the angel as he slept. Because perhaps Aziraphale had been right about him in the end. 


End file.
